


The Therapy of Doin’ Time

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Secret Snarry Swap 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: After the war, Harry’s life falls apart. The only friend he has is alcohol (the random hook-ups don’t count). Who would have thought that being thrown in jail withSnapeof all people would help to turn his life around again?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 15
Kudos: 95
Collections: Secret Snarry Swap19





	The Therapy of Doin’ Time

**Author's Note:**

> The spell Snape uses is Google-translated “release the drunkenness”.
> 
> Prompt No. 5 from arrisha: A few years after the war Harry's life has completely spiralled out of control. His friendships have all broke apart, the press ruined him for being gay, he's spent all his fortune in booze and drugs and his life mostly consists of meaningless hook ups and bad decisions. The only consistent thing in his life: visiting Snape in Azkaban once a month.

_It’s the familiar sound of something being dragged along metal bars that wakes him up._ Someone _has obviously been watching too many old Muggle police TV shows – likely American ones, at that. He groans and rolls over to press his face further into the flat pillow._

 _“You know,” a familiar voice drawls condescendingly from nearby, “there_ are _easier ways of getting in here to see me.”_

 _Dread pooling in his stomach – along with a burgeoning nausea – he cracks an eye open and slowly tilts his head so he can see. Arm casually leaning on the bars between them is the one person he had solemnly promised himself the month before that_ he would not see again! 

Oh, fuck!

* * *

**HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO LOVED AND LOVED AND LOVED...  
“Them... or me!” Ginny Weasley seen in tears as she issues ultimatum**

Snorting in disdain, Harry threw aside the paper with a headline that was more suited for a tabloid – and why on earth Skeeter hadn’t started her own yet was . . . probably _not_ an idea he wanted to give her, on second thought – and reached for his breakfast, which this morning consisted of a bottle of the finest Muggle whiskey gold could buy.

Considering it had come from a magical venue, then it could have done double duty as a bathroom cleaner, but Harry wasn’t picky anymore. He couldn’t be; most places had stopped being willing to sell _anything_ to Harry Potter, let alone whiskey, so he was reduced to taking whatever anyone he could find was willing to let him buy. 

It wasn’t fair, he reflected bitterly. Most people around his age were allowed to go out, have fun, drink perhaps a bit more than was particularly wise, but because he was the _Boy-Who-Lived_ , then it seemed he wasn’t allowed to get down off of the pedestal the entire Wizarding World had placed him on, regardless of whether he _wanted_ to be on it or not. 

It had barely been two weeks after the Final Battle before his downfall had begun. The final funeral had been Remus and Tonks’. Harry had already been having difficulty with it – after all, Remus had been the last link to his parents that he’d had – but seeing Teddy Lupin snuggled comfortably in the loving arms of Andromeda Tonks had made it infinitely worse. Teddy would never be left to grow up unloved and unwanted in a cupboard under the stairs, kept in ignorance until the time had come for him to be used as a weapon. 

That night, Harry had accepted the invitation to go out with Seamus and Dean, along with a larger crowd of their schoolfellows than he’d expected. 

He’d woken up, three days later, in a trashed room at Grimmauld Place, with a very huffy post owl dropping a paper on his head. The picture on the front page had taken up almost all the space, and it showed Harry leaning against a wall in some club somewhere, a bottle of alcohol gripped firmly in one hand, his eyes closed as he frantically gulped the liquid down. 

After that, it seemed that he could do nothing right where the Wizarding public was concerned – or the Wizarding tabloids, at any rate. 

It perhaps wouldn’t have been a problem – Merlin knew the press had vilified him before – if it wasn’t for the fact that his friends seemed to be drifting away from him at the same time. He’d understood Ron’s silence at first, since the Weasleys were, after all, still mourning Fred’s death. It was natural, he thought, for the family to draw in and close themselves off from outsiders. 

Except it soon became pretty damn clear that the ‘family’ still included Hermione. 

They just didn’t want _him_. 

Which made this particular headline even more of a travesty than usual, considering that Ginny hadn’t spoken to him for years, ever since the _Prophet_ had printed a picture of him kissing Ernie MacMillan. He still wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he’d been kissing a man or the fact that he’d been kissing a Hufflepuff that had annoyed her more. 

Raising the whiskey bottle to his lips again, Harry paused as it registered that the bottle felt much lighter than it should do. He lowered the bottle to squint at it. It was empty. _How had that happened? It had been brand new and unopened . . . hadn’t it?_

 _Perhaps I opened it yesterday?_ Harry tried to reassure himself. But yesterday or today, it didn’t make that much difference. The bottle was still empty _now_. 

Huffing in annoyance, he pulled himself up from the chair he’d been sitting in, and had to tightly grip the arm as the room slowly spun around him. It felt like an extremely slow Apparation, except he hadn’t gone anywhere. He closed his eyes and waited until the room was down to a slightly steadier wobble, then made his equally wobbly way towards the front door of Grimmauld Place. It might only be – he squinted at the ornate grandfather clock in the entrance hall – ten o’clock in the morning, but surely there’d be at least _one_ Muggle place he could get another bottle or two from...

* * *

He slowly came awake to the sensation that something was wrong. He’d unfortunately found himself waking up on various floors in Grimmauld Place more times than he wanted to admit, and this was nowhere near as comfy. It was also much colder than the old Black home, with a draft that seemed to be centred right on his face. He scrunched up his nose; it made him want to sneeze. 

“Ah, so the Golden Boy finally awakens,” a contemptuous voice drawled, much closer to Harry’s ear than he was expecting anyone to be. “Although, the gold has become rather . . . _tarnished_ recently, hasn’t it?” 

Harry forced his eyes open and glanced around. Sitting on a stone slab attached to the opposite wall was one of the last people he’d ever thought he’d see again. 

“Snape?” he croaked. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Azkaban.” 

Snape – if it was him – snorted. “Oh dear, Potter,” he said, and his mouth curled up into the sneer that had plagued Harry through most of his school years. “You _are_ inebriated, aren’t you? Haven’t you realised where you are yet?” 

Harry frowned, and took a harder look at his surroundings. It was difficult, though, as despite the draft, it was actually exceedingly gloomy, and his vision was swimming, making it difficult for him to focus. 

“I—” he began, then abruptly halted as his stomach lurched violently. He clamped his mouth shut and breathed heavily through his nose. 

The other man eyed him warily, then glanced around, carefully. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, there’ll be hell if I’m caught, but I shall be damned twice over if I remain in a cell with a drunken Potter,” he said. He leant forward and pressed a cold fingertip to the middle of Harry’s forehead, directly over the faded lightning bolt scar. “ _Dimittere ad miscendam ebrietatem_ ,” he intoned in a low voice, and something both cold and hot at once swept through Harry’s body, leaving behind a tingling feeling and a clearer head than Harry had had in weeks, if not years. 

“Snape!” he exclaimed, sitting upright as the man leant back onto his own slab. “What did you do to me?” 

“Removed the alcohol from your system,” said Snape. He folded his arms over his chest and sneered at Harry again. “You’re welcome,” he added, pointedly. 

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Harry snapped back at him. Now he’d have to work twice as hard to get that lovely numbing buzz back again. The remembrance of what had led to Snape depriving him of that buzz suddenly surged back into his brain, and he took a closer look at his surroundings. “Wait a minute! Why am _I_ in Azkaban?!” he demanded, turning on Snape as if the former professor would have the answer. 

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. “Presumably because the Aurors found you drunkenly attempting magic in a Muggle area,” he said, and waved a hand dismissively. “Or something like that.” 

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair and over his face, trying to remember anything of the previous day that would have led to this. Unfortunately, it remained frustratingly blank. “Okay. Okay,” he repeated. “I’ve not done anything bad, so they’ll have to let me go soon.” He looked up at Snape again. “Why are you here?” he asked. 

“Hmm, too much alcohol rots the brain, Potter,” said Snape. “I was a Death Eater who killed Dumbledore, or had you managed to forget that?” 

A surge of rage made Harry clench his fists. “I _meant_ ,” he got out through gritted teeth, “why are you in _this_ section of Azkaban? Shouldn’t you be in the section with the other murderers?” 

Snape suddenly looked amused. “Take another look around you, Potter,” he said. “I think you’ve missed something.” Harry glanced around, but other than rocks and the bars of the cell, there really wasn’t much else to see. “There is no ‘section’ for the worst criminals anymore, because there are no Dementors anymore. There’s no difference between us, Potter. We’re all as bad as each other now.” 

“Wha—?” Harry blinked as he realised what he should have noticed by now. Of course there were no Dementors in Azkaban anymore, otherwise he would have been falling unconscious with his mother’s dying scream in his ears by now. “But—” he muttered, unsure as to how he planned to finish that sentence. 

“Would you like me to pretend?” Snape asked, and assumed a deadpan expression. “Oh. Arg. Woe is me. I am damned. Please, kill me and spare me from this torment.” He raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Is that more to your satisfaction?” he queried. 

Really, Harry tried to explain to the Aurors who had to come and physically tear him away from Snape, it was just more than anyone could reasonably be expected to take!

* * *

“Back again, Potter? You really are a lightweight, aren’t you? You need to learn how to hold your liquor better...”

* * *

“Welcome back to Chez Azkaban. We apologise for the lack of screaming, but we hope you enjoy your stay otherwise...”

* * *

“Really, Potter, are you _trying_ to follow in that detestable Black’s footsteps? If so, you may want to think about trying to murder someone first... _I didn’t mean me, Potter!”_

* * *

“Have you ever thought about trying anger management? I hear it can work wonders...”

* * *

_“WHY THE HELL DO YOU KEEP PUTTING ME WITH SNAPE?!?!”_

* * *

“This is torture. Seriously, this is worse than Dementors. I have to stop drinking—” 

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Potter. You’re here so often the Aurors are beginning to think you’ve taken a fancy to me.” 

_“ARGHHH!”_

* * *

“It’s just . . . I don’t understand why they pulled away from me in the first place. What did I do that was so bad? Why won’t they just _tell_ me? They still like Hermione, _she_ still gets invited to things, so why not me?” 

“Potter, I really don’t want to hear about the Weasleys—” 

“I mean, I could understand it once the photo of me and Ernie came out, that was _bad_ , although at least they didn’t get the one of us with Terry Boot and the Patil twins . . . Wait, why are you banging your head against the wall like that?”

* * *

“How do you stand it, Snape?” 

Snape sighed. “Stand what, Potter?” 

“Being disliked by everyone.” 

“...” 

“Oh, er, no, I didn’t mean— _urk_!” 

“GUARDS!!”

* * *

“Is it really that time of the month again already? My, how time flies when you’re not allowed to leave...”

* * *

_Snape sits back in his chair and studies Harry through the glass that separates them. It’s an absolutely_ ridiculous _setup. Someone really has been watching too many Muggle American TV shows if they’ve set up the Azkaban visiting room with phone booths and glass panels._

_“Finally decided you prefer being on that side of the bars, have you, Potter?” Snape queries, his expression more blank than Harry has seen him be in a long time._

_“You did say,” Harry reminds him, “that there were easier ways of getting in here to see you.”_

_Snape raises an eyebrow at him and folds his arms across his chest, plainly sceptical._

_Harry sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, feeling the heat spreading under his hand and up into his face. “It, er, it turns out that, apparently, talking with you . . . helped,” he mutters. The blush gets worse as Snape stares at him, incredulously. “The drinking wasn’t helping anymore,” he continues. “But talking to you was, so . . . here I am.”_

_It would be hard for anyone else to believe – it’s hard for_ Harry _to believe – but being in Snape’s presence helps to dispel the weight that has been bogging him down for years now. Snape has never made any pretence of liking him, or even tolerating him, and the fact that his behaviour hasn’t changed is much more of a relief than Harry would have ever expected. He feels he can be_ himself _around the former professor, without worrying about whether his actions will send someone running, either for the hills or for the nearest newspaper office._

_He doesn’t know when, precisely, he’d begun to look forward to getting arrested and thrown in Azkaban, but once he realised, he also knew something had to change. He can’t stay in prison just because the outside world doesn’t like him._

_“I’m afraid, Mr Potter, that I’m far too busy to act as your unofficial therapist,” Snape says, and the mental weight crashes back down onto Harry. Stunned, he gapes at Snape as the man gets to his feet and turns towards the door on his side that leads back into the prison. He can feel the prickling in his eyes that signifies tears are close and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the wetness before it becomes visible to anyone else. “However...” continues Snape, thoughtfully, as he pauses in front of the door. “If you made an actual appointment, then I’m sure some time will become available for you. Eventually.”_

_His exit after that is suitably dramatic. Harry, though, doesn’t care. His spirits are rising again, and the tears this time feel like relief._

_He Apparates away with a smile on his face._

_He has an appointment to make._

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3893238.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1822344.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1150423.html).


End file.
